We've never had a normal birth.
Not once. Not with either of our daughters.
I don't know what it feels like to rush to the hospital because my wife's water broke. I don't know what it feels like to hold my newborn in the same hospital room where she was born, to care for her there for a couple of days before bringing her home. I don't know what it feels like to have family flood the hospital to meet our baby in those first precious hours.
I don't know what any of that feels like. And I never will.
Because both times — both times — our daughters arrived early, were whisked away to the NICU, and we entered a completely different story than the one we had imagined.
This is about that loss. The one nobody talks about. The one that feels almost wrong to grieve because your baby is alive and that should be enough.
But it's not wrong. And you're allowed to feel it.
What "Normal" Looks Like
Let me tell you what other families got that we didn't.
They got that moment at home when it's time to go to the hospital. The bag by the door. The nervous excitement. The contractions timing app. The drive where you're both terrified and exhilarated because this is it — you're about to meet your baby.
They got dilation updates and countdowns and ice chips and a birth plan that maybe went out the window but at least existed in the first place.
They got to hold their baby immediately. Skin-to-skin in the delivery room. That first cry. That first look. The nurses wrapping the baby and placing them on mom's chest while dad cuts the cord and takes a thousand photos he'll look at for the rest of his life.
They got admitted to the same hospital room as their baby. They got to care for her there — diaper changes and feeding attempts and sleepless nights in an uncomfortable chair but at least she was right there.
They got to go home together. After a couple of days, they packed up, loaded the car seat, and drove home as a family. The baby came home with them. Into the nursery they'd prepared. Into the life they'd been building.
And in those first days home, family came. Grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends — everyone wanted to meet the baby, hold the baby, bring meals, take photos, be part of that moment.
That's what normal looks like. And we got none of it.
Not the baby shower that was scheduled for the week our first daughter arrived at 26 weeks. Not the nesting phase where you obsessively organize the nursery and wash tiny clothes and stock the diaper station. Not the small, ordinary things that happen in those final weeks before a baby arrives — because there were no final weeks.
Just an emergency. Just a rush. Just a NICU admission and a baby we couldn't hold and a hospital room we couldn't share and a going-home day that came months later than it was supposed to. Suddenly you're learning the NICU glossary and asking questions you never thought you'd need to ask instead of enjoying those final quiet weeks at home.
Twice.
Watching Other People Get What You Didn't
Here's the part nobody warns you about: other people will keep having normal births all around you.
Friends will post on social media — the hospital bracelet photo, the fresh newborn sleeping on mom's chest, the proud dad holding his daughter for the first time, the "we're going home!" picture in front of the hospital three days later.
Family members will have babies. Neighbors will have babies. Strangers in your social media feed will have babies and document every normal, beautiful, uncomplicated moment.
And it will hurt.
It's gut-wrenching. It makes you jealous in a way that feels ugly and wrong but is so deeply real you can't pretend it's not there. You are living a whole different experience — one with isolettes and monitors and tubes and uncertainty — while they are living the version you were supposed to have.
It's hard to be happy for them. It just is.
You want to be. You know their joy is real and valid and has nothing to do with your pain. But watching someone casually hold their hours-old baby in a hospital room while you're driving twenty minutes away to sit at an isolette and watch your baby through plastic — it does something to you.
It highlights everything you lost. Everything you'll never get back.
And nobody talks about it because saying it out loud feels petty or selfish or ungrateful. Your baby is alive. That should be enough.
But grief doesn't work like that.
What We Actually Lost
We lost the birth experience. The immediate bonding. The skin-to-skin in the delivery room. The holding our baby in the same space where she was born.
We lost the first days together as a family. The hospital room where it's just the three of you figuring it out. The going home together. The grandparents visiting our home to meet the baby instead of standing outside a NICU waiting room hoping for a five-minute exception.
We lost normalcy. The version of those first weeks and months that every parenting book and birth class assumes you'll have. The version where your biggest concern is diaper rash and feeding schedules, not oxygen saturation and Brady episodes.
We lost the photos. The posed newborn pictures. The family gathered around the hospital bed. The going-home outfit that actually fit. The first night in the nursery.
We lost the timeline. The baby shower that happened after the baby was already born. The nesting phase that never came because the baby arrived before we were ready. The final weeks of pregnancy that just ended, abruptly, with no warning and no preparation.
And here's the one that hurts the most: we lost it twice. We don't even have one normal birth experience to hold onto. We don't get to say "well, the first one was rough but at least the second time..."
No. Both times. Both daughters. Two completely different NICU experiences, but the same fundamental loss.
We will never know what a normal birth feels like. That door is closed.
Why It's Okay to Grieve This
Your baby is alive. Your baby is being cared for by the best medical team on earth for exactly what they need. You are grateful. You know how much worse it could have been.
And still — still — you are allowed to grieve what you lost.
Gratitude and grief can exist in the same space. Being thankful your baby survived does not erase the pain of everything that didn't go the way it was supposed to.
You are allowed to feel jealous of normal birth stories. You are allowed to scroll past the hospital photos on social media because they hurt too much to look at. You are allowed to cry about the baby shower you missed or the first family photo you never got or the going-home outfit that your baby never wore.
This is loss. Real, valid, painful loss. And it deserves to be acknowledged.
The NICU takes things from families that most people never even think about. It takes normalcy and control and the birth story you imagined. It takes milestones and firsts and moments you can't get back.
And it's okay to mourn that. It doesn't make you ungrateful. It makes you human.
This is where taking care of yourself means acknowledging grief, not just pushing through it.
Your Birth Story Is Still Yours
Here's what I want you to know.
Your birth story might not be what you imagined. It might not be the version you see in movies or read about in parenting blogs or hear from friends who had uncomplicated deliveries.
But it is still your story. It is still, and will always be, special to you.
The moment your baby was born — even if it was earlier than it should have been, even if it was terrifying, even if you didn't get to hold them right away — that moment is yours. The first time you saw them, even through an isolette. The first time you touched their tiny hand. The first time they opened their eyes and you swore they recognized your voice.
Those moments matter. They count. They are part of your family's story, and no one can take that from you.
You didn't get the normal version. You got this version. And this version is harder and scarier and lonelier than it should have been — but it is yours.
Hold onto that. Write it down if you need to. Take the photos you can take, even if they're not the ones you imagined. Document the moments that matter to you, even if they look different than everyone else's.
Because one day, your child will ask about the day they were born. And you will tell them the truth: it wasn't the way we planned it. It was harder than we expected. But the moment we met you — the moment you arrived and fought and survived — that changed everything.
And that story, as painful and imperfect as it is, will be the most important story you ever tell.
For the Parents Who Lost It Twice
If you're reading this and you've had more than one NICU baby, I see you.
I see the compounded grief of never knowing what normal feels like. Of watching other families have easy births over and over while you get the NICU over and over. Of realizing that this is just your family's story now — no exceptions, no relief, no alternate timeline where things go the way they're supposed to.
It's exhausting. It's isolating. And it feels impossibly unfair.
I don't have an answer for why this keeps happening to us. I don't have a way to make peace with it. I just know that we're living it, and we're allowed to feel everything that comes with it — the grief, the jealousy, the anger, the exhaustion.
And we're also allowed to keep going. To keep showing up at the NICU. To keep loving our kids fiercely even when the story didn't go the way we wanted.
Because they're ours. And their story — however it began — is ours too.
— Louie
Two-time NICU dad. Two emergency births. Zero normal experiences. And still learning to grieve what we lost.
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Between Beeps does not provide medical advice. Always follow your NICU team’s recommendations.